Very well then. Torin would find his own portal home.
He knew where he was now, and he strode over the fells, trampling hissing clumps of ferlies and kicking frowning stones out of his path. Soon the road rose to meet him, and Torin ran along its winding path, the light and darkness still suspended in equal measure. It was not day or night, but he had a terrible sensation that time had been flowing quickly in the mortal realm.
He saw his and Sidra’s croft in the distance, and his heart lifted. He didn’t know what he would say to her, but an apology was waiting, ripe in his mouth as he reached to open the kail yard gate. His hand passed through it.
Torin stopped, bewildered.
He tried again, but his hand—which looked every bit as solid as he knew it to be—passed through the iron brackets once more, as if he were ethereal.
He cautiously moved forward, passing through the gate. He felt no pain. Nothing but his growing dismay.
“Sidra?” he called, his voice ringing in the ever-present dusk. “Sid?”
He reached for the door, but his hand passed through the wood. He stared at it, then saw that his hand was whole and visible again when he brought it back to himself.
He felt the solid constraint of his flesh and the cadence of his heart. He felt the air swell in his lungs. And yet he couldn’t feel the gate, the wood.
Unsettled, he melted through the front door and found himself standing in a shadowed common room. No fire burned in the hearth. No candles were lit. No dinner was on the table.
“Sidra! Maisie?” he called for them, walking through the table, through the walls. He searched the cottage, his terror mounting, but his wife and his daughter were not there.
Torin stood in the common room again, his breaths ragged, telling himself to be calm. He must calm his mind, solve this mystery.
He began to notice other things. Sidra’s herbs were missing. Her clothes were gone, as were Maisie’s. Their possessions were no longer here. They had moved. Moved . . .
He remembered one of the last things he had said to her.
It would make my life much simpler if we moved into the castle.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Torin passed through the front door again. He ran down the road to the city of Sloane. The thoroughfare was bustling, as it often was at midday. It hummed with life, and Torin called out to one of his guards, stationed at the gate.
“Andrew? Andrew, have you seen Sidra?”
Andrew didn’t hear Torin, and didn’t see him. Not even when Torin came to stand before him, almost nose to nose.
“Can you hear me? Andrew!”
The guard was completely unaware of him.
Torin had no choice but to step around Andrew. He began to jog down the street. He waited to make eye contact with someone. He waited for one of his people to call out a greeting to him, as they always did when they saw him.
No one noticed him.
When a lad ran right through him, Torin came to a halt and watched the child continue on his way, completely oblivious that he had just scampered through someone else.
Torin held his panic at bay and entered the castle, following the trail of excited conversation up the stairs to the laird’s wing. He heard Sidra’s voice. The beloved sound sent a pang through him, as if he hadn’t heard her speak in years. The doors were open, and Torin came to a stop on the threshold, his eyes seeking her.
Sidra stood in the center of the room, facing him. Light must have been streaming through the window behind her because she was golden. Illuminated.
“We are very thrilled to have you here, Lady Sidra,” said a servant woman. “Shall I have another small bed brought up? For the wee lass?”
Sidra smiled. “No, but thank you, Lilith. Maisie will sleep with me for now.”
“Until his lairdship returns?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, my lady. Ah, here is your afternoon tea.”
Torin was vaguely aware of the air stirring around him. Of another servant walking through him. He was staring at Sidra, desperate for her eyes to shift, to see him standing on the threshold.
Sidra.
But she glanced down as the servant brought a tray and set it on a round table by the window. There was a silver pot of tea, spouting fragrant steam into the air, and a mince pie, warm from the oven.
“Thank you, Rosie,” Sidra said to the girl who had delivered the refreshment, but her voice was strained.
Rosie curtsied and left, passing back through Torin. Lilith remained to serve Sidra. The attendant was talking about something as she sliced into the pie, when Sidra suddenly covered her mouth.
“W-where is the chamber pot?”
Lilith set down her knife with a clatter, eyes wide as Sidra began to fumble at the bureau’s twin doors, where the pot was stored. The servant rushed to help her, but Sidra was already on the floor, retching into the bowl.
“Shh, my lady. It’s all right,” Lilith said in a motherly tone, holding Sidra’s hair as she continued to vomit. “It’s all right.”
Torin remained standing in the arch of the lintel, frozen. What is this? he wondered with a frantic heart. Why is she ill?
“Was it the pie, Lady?” Lilith asked, taking the pot when Sidra had finally finished.
“I think so,” Sidra said faintly, still kneeling on the floor. “I also can’t stand the smell of blood pudding.”
Since when have you hated blood pudding, Sid? Torin thought, concerned.
“Ah. Well, we will take great care to avoid those foods for now. Here, let me help you up.” Lilith eased Sidra to her feet. “I was the same with my first bairn. I couldn’t stand the smell of kail boiling in the pot. Which was rather unfortunate. I was sick for months.”
Bairn?
Sidra wiped her mouth, forlorn.
“But that’s not to say it won’t pass quickly for you, Lady,” Lilith hurried to amend. “The first three months are difficult, but I am sure you will feel back to normal very soon.”
Sidra was quiet, lost in her thoughts.
Torin had ceased breathing.
“How far along are you?” Lilith asked gently.
“Seven weeks as of yesterday.” Sidra drew her fingers through her hair, her face pale. “And I would ask you to hold this confidence for now, Lilith. I don’t want the clan to know yet.”
“I won’t speak a word of it, Lady,” the attendant reassured. “But I’m glad to know, so I may be of help to you. Such as telling the cook to cease making you mince pies.” She began to gather the tray. “Does anything else sound good to you at the moment? Perhaps an oatcake?”
“No,” Sidra said, with a watery smile. “I think I should rest for now.”
Lilith nodded and moved to the door. But she paused, glancing back at Sidra with a sheen of pride. “Does his lairdship know, Lady?”
Sidra closed her eyes, briefly. “No, not yet. I . . . plan to tell him when he returns from his trip to the mainland.”
“Very good, Lady Sidra. Ring if you need anything.”